


He's Not Gone (dream smp)

by inthebathroom



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angel of Death Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Five Stages of Grief, Ghost TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ghost Wilbur Soot, Grief/Mourning, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Metaphors, Not Beta Read, Pain, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sad, Sad Parental Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Symbolism, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Traumatized Toby Smith | Tubbo, Traumatized Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:41:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29814795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthebathroom/pseuds/inthebathroom
Summary: Tommy had seemed untouchable for so long. He couldn't be gone. Not like that.Or, Tubbo is in denial about Tommy's death for a long time. It hurts. I'm so sorry for writing this.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 3
Kudos: 51





	He's Not Gone (dream smp)

**Author's Note:**

> TW for mentions of death, religious metaphors, mentions of depression, mentions of suicidal thoughts, and general grief and violence.

Tommy wasn’t dead. Tubbo was sure he wasn’t. He couldn’t be dead because Tommy was always there, always a constant in Tubbo’s life. Everytime you thought he was really gone, he came back again, never quite the same as before, but there nonetheless. Tommy wasn’t dead because if he was, things were really at the point of no return.

Tubbo had never questioned Wilbur’s death. Wilbur wasn’t like Tommy. He was strong, yes, but he never seemed untouchable. It was as if there was always something weighing him down, causing him to look over his shoulder at every turn. That had been his downfall in the end, hadn’t it? The world weighed down on his mind until he snapped. Another Icarus, flown too close to the sun.

Tommy though? Tubbo placed him in the same class as Dream, Techno, and Phil. Tommy had died twice, sure, but after that it seemed stagnant. As if the universe was protecting him. He never died in the war between Pogtopia and Manburg. He never died in exile, even if he’d come close. Even if Tubbo thought he had. He didn’t die on Doomsday as he shouted across the ruins of L’manberg, crying out for the man he called his friend to stop the bombing. He hadn’t even met his end in the final battle against Dream, when he was prepared for the worst.

So why now? Why would Tommy, who had been so full of life, such a constant in everyone’s world, die now? It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense, so it couldn’t be true. Any moment now Tommy would show up and laugh, asking why everyone looked so upset. Any moment now Tommy would barge in with a crooked grin on his face and ask Tubbo if he wanted to go on an adventure.

Although, Tommy hadn’t been like that for a while. It was almost like he was marching forward out of pure spite, daring anything to get in his way. The way he talked in the weeks leading up to Dream’s imprisonment… Tubbo couldn’t get that out of his head. It was like Tommy had one thing on his mind and he didn’t care if he died trying to get it. Like it was the only thing he had left that was keeping him going. Like if he died trying to get it, it would be worth it. That had been terrifying.

But still, he had been getting better. When Dream was imprisoned, Tommy had seemed almost back to his old self. Not quite there, but steadily getting closer. He couldn’t be dead just when he was supposed to get closure. Just when everything could finally go back to how it had been before L’manberg, when Tommy and Tubbo hadn’t been forced to watch one another die on the battlefield or on a stage, like some sick, twisted form of entertainment. When they had been nothing more than two kids, joking around with one another. Carefree. He couldn’t have died before that.

That’s what Tubbo told himself over and over, attempting to erase the little voice in his mind that told him that Sam wouldn’t lie about this. That’s what he believed until Sam showed Tubbo the security camera footage.

Tommy was a constant in Tubbo’s life, until he wasn’t.

Tubbo watched the footage, despite Sam’s warnings that it was bad. That it was graphic. Tubbo watched it, and saw it, and he couldn’t deny it anymore.

He wanted to cry. God, why couldn’t he seem to make himself cry. His best friend had died irreversibly on the screen in front of him, he should have been sobbing, begging for Sam to turn it off. Instead, he just sat there, not uttering a word, shaking slightly from the shock. Slowly, he stood up and walked out of the room, not even bothering to excuse himself. What was wrong with him? Maybe he was broken.

He went back to work on his nuclear weapons for a while, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus on them for long. He couldn’t help but remember the grin on Tommy’s face as he had explored the crater that had been made by the first test missile. The missile that had almost killed Tommy, but hadn’t because Tommy was supposed to be untouchable. Then, he tried working with Ranboo on the Bee n’ Boo hotel, but that didn’t last very long either. Tubbo kept staring out the window at the Big Innit hotel, watching as Sam Nook waited in the lobby for his boss who would never come back. Nobody had the heart to tell him Tommy was gone.

He started talking to Puffy, although he had been completely adverse to the idea at first. Therapy? No way. That’d just dig up too many bad memories. Puffy had asked that he just try one session, though, so he had. He thought it was helping a little, but he couldn’t really tell. 

He spoke to Sam too, talking over lunch, checking in on one another.

One day, Tubbo asked Sam if he knew what Tommy’s exile had been like. He knew something had happened, he knew it had gotten bad, but he never got the full story. Tommy never told, and Tubbo had never asked. The only person other than Dream and Tommy who had known was Sam, because Dream had told Sam everything during those long hours in Pandora’s Vault.

The stories that Sam told Tubbo were awful, even coming from an outsider’s perspective. How Dream had pushed Tommy past his breaking point, constantly made him believe that none of his friends cared about him. How Tommy had constantly muttered under his breath that he didn’t know how much longer he was going to be around. That he was holding on by a thread, but at any point that thread could have snapped.

Suddenly, Tommy didn’t seem quite so untouchable. He was just a boy who had been manipulated, lied to, and hurt over and over again by the people he cared about. Tubbo spent a lot of time thinking about that, wondering if Tommy would still be here if things had gone differently. If Tubbo hadn’t been so angry at Tommy’s selfishness, so scared of what Dream could do to him. Maybe he would have been, but then again, maybe he’d have been dead even sooner, killed along with the rest of the cabinet in a fit of rage.

Tubbo wasn’t sure he wanted to focus on that possibility.

So that was it, Tommy was gone. Dream was still in prison. It was awful, but Tubbo fell into somewhat of a routine. He would walk the prime path, meet up with Sam, have lunch, visit the shrine and the statue that Puffy had made for Tommy, and then go to bed. Sometimes Ranboo would come with him, but not often. Sometimes Sam couldn’t make it, and Tubbo would be alone, sitting on the bench, willing himself to cry. Usually, though, the only change in his routine was on Thursdays when he visited Puffy for therapy.

Eventually, Tubbo managed to force himself into work again, going through the motions of work because it was the only thing he knew how to do. He finished the hotel, but never put out any information about it. He didn’t care if people came to stay. He built bigger and better nukes with no intention to ever use them. He didn’t have anyone to blame but Dream, and he couldn’t blow up the prison. That wouldn’t solve anything and he’d just lose one of the few people he talked to because of it. Sam understood Tubbo’s anger, but he couldn’t condone the destruction of the prison he’d worked so hard to build.

Things weren’t normal, by any means, but they were becoming familiar. Nothing disturbed the numbness of routine for a long time.

Then, he came back.

Tubbo had come to the bench to be alone that day. Sam was busy, so was Ranboo. More than anything, Tubbo just wanted to sit on that bench and listen to music, hoping it would trigger some sort of emotional response in him. Hoping he could stop being numb.

He froze when he realized that music was already drifting from the area.

Tubbo wanted to scream. Someone was there. Someone was intruding, listening to Tommy’s discs, sitting on that bench. They probably didn’t even care about Tommy. Tubbo was running now, feet pounding against the dirt. He was quickly out of breath, but he willed himself to keep moving. It didn’t matter that it had been over a month since he’d ran anywhere, all that mattered was finding whoever thought they could sit on Tommy’s bench and listen to Tommy’s discs.

The figure came into view, and Tubbo kept running, anger building in his stomach, until the boy turned around. Suddenly, he was hit with a wave of nausea. The boy who sat on the bench was tall, but scrawny, clearly a child. His skin was grey and translucent, and his face glowed with purple tear tracks, like the crying obsidian that had begun to cover Pandora’s Vault. His blond hair and red baseball shirt stood out drastically from his desaturated skin, and his eyes were dead and white.

Tubbo couldn’t help but laugh, “I’m going crazy. I’m actually going insane.”

The ghost blinked, frowning, “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not here,” Tubbo insisted, “Dream killed you ages ago. If you were going to come back, you would have ages ago. I thought I was done with pretending you were still around, but I guess not.”

“What?” the ghost asked, clearly confused, “I’m right here, Tubbo! You’re Tubbo, right? Tommy’s best friend! I’m Phantommy! Like a phantom, get it? Cause I’m a ghost!”

“No. You’re not real, you’re in my head. You died. You died over a month ago, you aren’t coming back.”

Tubbo finally realized how Tommy must have felt in exile, feeling like he was being driven mad, hallucinating… He felt a surge of regret at the thought. That was his fault.

“Tubbo, I don’t remember how I died, but I’m real,” the ghost spoke, “I’m Phantommy, and I’m real.”

“But you aren’t my Tommy,” Tubbo asked, trying to calm down, “are you?”

“Not quite,” Phantommy sighed, “Tommy’s dead, I could never really be the same as him, but I’m the closest thing in this world right now. I’m like… the part of him that people want to remember.”

“You’re what we want to hold onto,” Tubbo muttered.

“Yeah! So, in a way, I guess I am all in your head. A physical manifestation of your favorite memories of Tommy, the way you wish things could have been towards the end.”

“Things did get pretty bad towards the end of his life.”

“I wouldn’t know. After the memories of winning independence, everything gets really spotty.”

“Like Ghostbur, nothing but happy memories.” That thought should have made Tubbo happy, glad his friend didn’t remember all the bad he’d been through, but it just weighed down on him like the sky on the titan Atlas. After L’manberg had won independence, things had really gone downhill for everyone. Sure, the first war was bad, but they had laughed. They had reassured one another, built something greater than themselves. After that, people stopped laughing. Laughter and love and friendship turned into tears and resentment, fear, and sometimes even hatred. It had been awful.

“That’s the blessing of being dead. You don’t have to remember any of the shittiness.”

“There shouldn’t have been that much shittiness in the first place,” Tubbo countered, “You were just 16. God, you didn’t even live until your 17th birthday.”

“Tubbo, I know it fucking sucks, but would it be any better if I had died as an adult? That’s what happened to Wilbur and Schlatt, and things are still pretty bad for both of them, from the flashes I remember. Nobody deserves death, not really. It comes at an unfair time, taking people before they’re ready. It’s not meant to be fair.”

“But Wilbur wanted to die!” Tubbo shouted, tears welling in his eyes for the first time since Tommy’s death, “It wasn’t fair, you’re right, but at least he wanted to go. At least he was happy. He remembers his death, Tommy, you don’t. You didn’t want to die… not anymore.”

“What do you mean, not anymore?” Tommy cocked his head, “I’d never want to die, Tubso, because I’m me.”

“But you aren’t him,” Tubbo whispered, “you don’t know what he went through. You don’t know the stories I’ve heard from Sam.”

“What?” Phantommy asked, seemingly taken aback by Tubbo’s words, “Tubbo, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Was… was Tommy really not happy?”

“No,” Tubbo sighed, “he wasn’t. Not towards the end, anyways. I thought he was getting better, but in the end it didn’t matter, I guess.”

They were silent for a while. Neither wanted the silence to continue, as it bored into their souls. Both wished the other would say something, but neither wanted to break a silence that tense, in fear of saying the wrong thing.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said, finally. Tubbo hardly ever remembered Tommyinnit apologizing for anything. He was always so sure he was right. The only apologies Tubbo remembered were the ones leading up to the final battle. The words, hastily scrawled on a sign placed in a doorway. The money, and the flowers, and the sentiment that was rushed for fear he’d never get the chance to say it aloud.

Hearing him say sorry now… it was jarring. It felt wrong. Tommy, or Phantommy, had no reason to apologize for. It wasn’t his fault that Tubbo’s best friend had died. It wasn’t his fault that he was here. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t remember, not when he was apparently the manifestation of what people wanted to remember.

“Don’t say that,” Tubbo muttered, “not your fault.”

“No, I guess not,” Phantommy barked a half-hearted laugh, “but you were sad. Didn’t wanna see you sad, I guess.”

“God, Tommy, I wish he’d just killed me. Then you’d still be here.”

“And you’d be where I am right now. It wouldn’t be any different, just sooner. Just swapped around. Neither of us deserved to die, Tubso, but we can’t change it now. We can’t fix what’s already been broken. Even if we could go back and change things, something else would break. The world is not ours to change around as we wish. We aren’t gods, Tubbo. Don’t become someone who thinks he is.”

“We can’t live forever, I guess. Lives are short, yours’ shorter than most.”

“We can’t all be Philza Minecraft, centuries old and still going strong.”

Tubbo choked on a laugh that quickly turned into a sob, “He really is old, isn’t he?”

“So old, Tubbo,” Phantommy grinned, “he’s gonna get dementia and shit.”

“Don’t say that, Tommy,” Tubbo frowned, “we’ve already got enough people with bad memories on the server with you, Ranboo, and Ghostbur. Heck, Karl forgot that Ranboo and I were married the other day, maybe he’s a part of the memory gang now too.”

“You and Ranboo are married?” Tommy asked, brows furrowed.

“Platonically,” Tubbo clarified, “mainly for tax benefits, really. We have an adopted son named Michael.”

“Oh. How old is he?”

“Two years old.”

Tommy sucked in a breath, “He’s so young… Tubbo, can you promise me something?”

“What is it, big man?”

Tommy smiled at the nickname, “Make sure he grows up in a world that you’re proud of. He doesn’t deserve to go through what we did, even if I can’t really remember what it was. Remember… remember when we thought about running away?”

Tubbo blinked, “Of course. I thought you’d forgotten. Thought it was a bad memory for you, what with Wilbur being all… you know.”

“No… No, that was a good memory. I remember it.”

“What made it a good memory, then?”

“I guess I always tied it to the thought that one day, we’d get to do it. One day things would go back to normal and we wouldn’t have a burden on our shoulders anymore. One day we’d get to leave and never turn back. I latched onto that.”

“Oh,” Tubbo frowned, “well why does that matter now? You’re gone.”

“I just want you to know that it’s still an option,” Tommy admitted, “the responsibility never goes away. If you keep on waiting, you’ll never get out of here. If things start to head south again, take Ranboo and Michael and run far away to a place nobody’s ever touched. Don’t get roped in again, okay?”

“Okay… Okay, I promise, Tommy.”

“Good. Now, I have more people to talk to, but they can wait. I have a feeling that your clingy ass is not going to want me to leave for a while.”

The insult didn’t seem so insulting anymore.

“No, they need to know you’re back. Ranboo, Puffy, Quackity… they’ve all missed you.”

“Come with me then,” Tommy offered, “It’ll be just like old times.”

“I don’t remember old times being like this.”

“Me neither, Tubbo, but I’m trying to look on the bright side, okay?”

“Okay, okay!” Tubbo laughed.

“One more thing, Tubbo?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I want to know how Tommy died just yet if that’s alright. I know that I’ll find out eventually, but for the moment I’d rather just pretend it was peaceful.”

“Alright, Tommy. Let me know when you’re ready.”

Yes, Tommy was dead, but not gone. He would never be gone as long as he was remembered, as long as his ghost laughed and joked, reminding people of a brighter time. As long as statues of him stood tall, watching over the people who came and went each day. As long as people told his story, Tommy was still there with them, laughing along. As long as people remembered Tommy, the symphony wouldn’t have to finish on a sour note. It would ring throughout the land, imploring anyone who heard it to stop and listen for a while, to the tale of a child gone too soon.

It soon became common, in the lands of the Dream SMP, to see freshly cut alliums in vases on windowsills, or lying on the bench, or at his statue, or at the base of his shrine. A flower to remember Tommy by. A flower that symbolized the unity he never got to see on the server. A flower that wished him prosperity in whatever the next life was.

Even in a little house in the arctic, where two lone men resided, a single, fresh allium flower sat in the window. It should have been dead, frozen over and wilted by now, but it defied the odds. It was as if the flower was untouchable. A token that said ‘I forgive you’ without needing words.

He wasn’t gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I speedran this short one shot. Don't worry, I'm getting motivated to write again. I'm not sure when I'll return to writing Hiraeth, but I'll definitely continue Immortals very soon. I'm not dead, I was just tired and lacking creativity.


End file.
